The Street Lawyer Read Free Page A

He had no desire to talk to or negotiate with anyone. He had his audience in the conference room.
    “Which of these guys makes the most money?” he asked me.
    Malamud was the only partner, and I shuffled the papers until I found his.
    “That would be me,” Malamud offered.
    “What is your name?”
    “Nate Malamud.”
    I flipped through Nate’s return. It was a rare moment to see the intimate details of a partner’s success, but I got no pleasure from it.
    “How much?” Mister asked me.
    Oh, the joys of the IRS code. What would you like, sir? Gross? Adjusted gross? Net? Taxable? Income from salaries and wages? Or income from business and investments?
    Malamud’s salary from the firm was fifty thousand dollars a month, and his annual bonus, the one we all dreamed about, was five hundred and ten thousand. It had been a very good year, and we all knew it. He was one of many partners who had earned over a million dollars.
    I decided to play it safe. There was lots of other income tucked away near the back of the return—rental properties, dividends, a small business—but Iguessed that if Mister somehow grabbed the return he would struggle with the numbers.
    “One point one million,” I said, leaving another two hundred thousand on the table.
    He contemplated this for a moment. “You made a million dollars,” he said to Malamud, who wasn’t the least bit ashamed of it.
    “Yes, I did.”
    “How much did you give to the hungry, and the homeless?”
    I was already scouring his itemized deductions for the truth.
    “I don’t recall exactly. My wife and I give to a lot of charities. I know there was a donation, I think for five thousand, to the Greater D.C. Fund, which, as I’m sure you know, distributes money to the needy. We give a lot. And we’re happy to do it.”
    “I’m sure you’re very happy,” Mister replied, with the first hint of sarcasm.
    He wasn’t about to allow us to explain how generous we really were. He simply wanted the hard facts. He instructed me to list all nine names, and beside each write last year’s income, then last year’s gifts to charities.
    It took some time, and I didn’t know whether to hurry or be deliberate. Would he slaughter us if he didn’t like the math? Perhaps I shouldn’t hurry. It was immediately obvious that we rich folks had made lots of money while handing over precious little of it. At thesame time, I knew the longer the situation dragged on, the crazier the rescue scenarios would become.
    He hadn’t mentioned executing a hostage every hour. He didn’t want his buddies freed from jail. He didn’t seem to want anything, really.
    I took my time. Malamud set the pace. The rear was brought up by Colburn, a third-year associate who grossed a mere eighty-six thousand. I was dismayed to learn my pal Barry Nuzzo earned eleven thousand more than I did. We would discuss it later.
    “If you round it off, it comes to three million dollars,” I reported to Mister, who appeared to be napping again, with his fingers still on the red wire.
    He slowly shook his head. “And how much for the poor people?”
    “Total contributions of one hundred eighty thousand.”
    “I don’t want total contributions. Don’t put me and my people in the same class with the symphony and the synagogue, and all your pretty white folks clubs where you auction wine and autographs and give a few bucks to the Boy Scouts. I’m talking about food. Food for hungry people who live here in the same city you live in. Food for little babies. Right here. Right in this city, with all you people making millions, we got little babies starving at night, crying ’cause they’re hungry. How much for food?”
    He was looking at me. I was looking at the papers in front of me. I couldn’t lie.
    He continued. “We got soup kitchens all over town,places where the poor and homeless can get something to eat. How much money did you folks give to the soup kitchens? Any?”
    “Not directly,” I said. “But